Rogue's Passion (12 page)

She grasped the narrow overhang. The window was filthy and the way the sun was angled made it even harder to see inside. Squinting, she could make out a few shapes in the kennels but nothing in great detail.
 

“Can you see him?” Asher asked.
 

“The window’s too dirty.” She rubbed the glass to clean off the grime, but it didn’t help, so she told him to bring her down.
 

The disappointment etched on his face mirrored her own. She looked around for other options, wanting to go the extra mile for something he really cared about. Sure, she could follow him back to the car, where they could wait around for an hour, but it felt better to be doing something about it.
 

She noticed that one of the other windows was cracked open. “Look,” she said, grabbing his arm and pointing.
 

A moment later, he was boosting her up again. She tried to angle herself to see through the narrow opening, but this window wasn’t much better. A few of the dogs had either seen or heard her and started to bark.
 

“Better?” he called from below. “Can you see anything?”

She heard the hope in his voice.
 

“Uhhh, there’s a standard poodle in the first kennel and…I think there’s a German shepherd in the next one.” She tried to pull the window wider, but the old hinges wouldn’t budge. “Damn. I can’t see him. Conry?” she called. “Are you there, boy?”
 

She was about to tell Asher to lower her down, when a deep bark, separate from the rest, sounded from inside.
 

“That’s him!” Asher cried, jostling her legs.
 

She made a shriek that sounded like a sick duck on steroids and clutched at the windowsill to keep from falling. “Are you sure?” she asked, laughing.
 

“Yes. Yes.” He whistled and the dog barked again. Asher let out a
whoop
of excitement and a huge sense of relief rushed through her.
 

“Hey boy,” she said through the open window. “We’re coming for you soon, okay, so just hang in there.”

The instant Olivia’s feet hit the ground, she did a fist pump and her version of the we’re-going-to-the-World-Games victory dance. Asher copied her with a goofy shake-your-booty dance of his own, then pulled her into his arms and twirled her around.
 

“Thank the Fates, he’s here,” Asher said, breathlessly, setting her back down. “And it’s all because of you. I wouldn’t have been able to find him without you.”

“Or St. Anthony, depending on how you look at it. Come on,” she said, pulling him toward the car. “I saw a little coffee shop down the street. Let’s hang out there until this place opens.”

He made a face. “I don’t drink coffee.”

Other than the fact that she and Asher were extremely sexually compatible, she realized how little else she knew about him. And she only had six days to find out more.

“What?” She swept the back of her hand to her forehead and adopted a deep fake-announcer’s voice. “How. Is. That. Possible?” Asher’s happiness was making her giddy and silly.
 

He chuckled at her dramatic antics. Egged on by his response, she jumped onto his back, piggyback style. Hooking his arms under her knees, he jogged back to the car.
 

Soon they were sitting in a corner table at Lou’s Coffee Shop, near the windows so that Asher could see out. Olivia was sipping on a double tall caramel macchiato with extra foam (that got an
are you kidding me?
stare from Asher) and he was drinking a cup of black tea with a splash of milk (to which she’d responded with a
you’re so unimaginative
roll of her eyes).
 

Classical music played low in the background, but not loudly enough to drown out the sounds of the espresso machine. Because it was after the early rush, but before the caffeine addicts came in to get a second cup, the place was almost empty. Several college students sat engrossed near the gas fireplace, where one of them, a young man in a wheelchair, was showing them some sort of yarn project he was working on. A woman wearing trendy workout clothes and neon-pink running shoes stood at the counter and flirted with the barista, who was refilling the machine with espresso beans. On the opposite side of the door sat a humorless gray-haired woman who was clearly pissed off at her husband, a bald man with reading glasses low on his bulbous nose. She huffed a few times as she thumbed through one of those freebie papers that advertises garage sales and used cars.
 

Without warning, Asher leaned over the table and gave Olivia a slow, delicious kiss. That drew a few stares from the older couple.
 

“What was that for?” she asked when he sat down again.
 

“Because I felt like it.”

Who was she to argue with logic like that? All things considered, she should feel anything but carefree and happy right now. Her Talent had almost been revealed yesterday. She was jobless and careless and virtually homeless. But she was enjoying this adventure with Asher.
 

Then she remembered Marco and her mood darkened. And the cute couple celebrating their anniversary. They’d sat at a table similar to this one, and the man had leaned over to kiss the woman. After the explosion, Olivia had never seen them again. She hoped they made it out okay.
 

She stared into her cup at the heart pattern the barista had made in the foam. What was Asher’s part in all of this? She knew he didn’t have anything to do with the explosion, but he knew more than he had shared with her. As a Cascadian, what was he doing in New Seattle anyway? The portals were hidden, so how had he found one and crossed over? He’d mentioned fighting men and kilts. Were there more of his people here?
 

Resting an arm on the chair beside him, Asher tapped his ring on the wooden seatback and scanned the parking lot. He was always on the lookout for trouble. Just like she was. Although he seemed much less frazzled now that they’d located Conry, he still had a hard edge about him—an edge that she unfortunately found attractive.
 

“Why are you here?” she asked. “On this side of the portal, I mean?”

A muscle in his jaw tensed. “You as in
me
? Or you as in
us in general?
”
 

Ah. So there were more of them here. She’d had a feeling Asher wasn’t just some rogue Cascadian who’d found a portal and slipped through on his own. “Both.”

His long fingers dwarfed the ceramic cup he held. With his pinkie extended slightly—the one with the skull ring—he took a sip of his tea. He seemed to be mulling over exactly what, if anything, he was going to tell her. “It’s a long story,” he said finally.
 

“And I’ve got six more days.”

Chapter Nine

The RMI Group was located near the fishing terminal just north of downtown, but due to the heavy traffic this morning, it had taken a good thirty minutes to drive here from InnerBay Hospital. The region’s fastest growing digital image service was located in a two-story, glass and concrete building on Pier B. Various media outlets bought their photos and video clips to add visual realism to online content, but unlike paparazzi photo services, RMI was well respected in the industry. Which was why Carl Sanchez, known to many as the Fixer, had decided to start here.
 

He entered the airy lobby through the revolving glass doors and adjusted his sunglasses.
 

The receptionist’s desk lay straight ahead, in front of a half wall that sported a mini-waterfall and the company logo. On either side were two long corridors, their walls painted a variety of bright colors. Some designer probably said it would inspire worker productivity and workplace satisfaction, but to him, the wall made it look like a bunch of highly paid children worked here. The Ping Pong table, Nerf hoop, and what looked to be a wall of jellybeans in the atrium confirmed his suspicions.
 

Rather than some washed-up security guard behind the desk monitoring the comings and goings, it was a plump young woman. He was going to enjoy this. He pulled off his knit cap and rubbed his bald head, but he left the dark glasses in place.

“Thank you for calling Real Media Images. Can you hold, please?” She tapped her earpiece and looked up to greet him. “Welcome to—” Her canned smile faded into disbelief—then shock—then horror.
 

Just as he expected.
 

Her full cheeks reddened, almost to the color of the company polo shirt stretched tightly across her tits. She reminded him of an overripe tomato, where the touch of a knife point would make her skin burst wide open. He tried not to laugh, but she looked hilarious.
 

“Uh…um…can I help you?” she stammered.

He considered taking off the glasses and leaning in close to
really
give her something to stare at. He loved people’s reactions when they saw the entirety of his face for the first time. Long ago, he’d learned to use negativity as the fuel he needed to push himself further. Now, he fed off it, like a drug.
 

But he’d wait a little longer. He might need the leverage later.
 

“Andy Carroll. I need to speak to him.” He grabbed a hard candy from the crystal bowl on the counter and popped it into his mouth. Butterscotch. He spit it back into the wrapper and tossed it on the desk, where it lodged under her keyboard. “I fucking hate butterscotch.”

Frowning, she blinked a few times and tried to collect herself, unsure how she should respond. Finally, she managed to ask, “Is he expecting you?”
 

“No.”

She turned her attention to a few colored sticky notes on her desk and pulled off a red one.
 

Jesus. Even their office stationery looked like it belonged in an elementary school.
 

“I…uh… I’m afraid he’s out on assignment right now.”

“When will he be back?”

“Probably tomorrow. He’s shooting footage again today. Would you like to make an appointment?”

He didn’t make appointments. “Who’s the producer, then?”

“Excuse me?”

“The editor,” he said, waving his hand impatiently. She looked at him with a blank expression that mirrored her intelligence. How dumbed down did he have to make this? “You know, whoever takes his images and video clips, cleans them up, and loads them onto your site in all the various sizes and formats for people to download. That’s who I want to talk to.”
 

She visibly bristled, her cheeks reddening even more. “We don’t
clean up
our images, sir, or doctor them in any way. They’re on the site in their raw state, just as they appeared through the lens of a camera at the time they were taken.”

 
He was beginning to lose patience. His bad hand started to ache like it always did when he wanted to resolve a situation with violence. If what the woman at the hospital told him was true, and he had no reason to doubt her, he needed to see all the footage taken at the scene of the explosion. The news blogs with the best pictures listed Andy Carroll from RMI in the photo credits. He wanted to see them all.

“Let’s try this again,” he said in a singsong voice with exaggerated slowness. “Who hooks the fancy camera to the computer and presses the little button, so that, wow, all the pretty pictures go onto the web thingie?”

Her eyes narrowed at his condescending tone. “Are you referring to the image processing manager or the director of digital systems?”

He gripped the edge of the counter until his knuckles went white. His anger was never far away, but stupid people seemed to have a knack for bringing it out. He was done being nice. “I don’t care what the hell the job title is. I want to speak to the person who handled the fucking images that Andy shot yesterday.”

The woman’s glare went even icier. “I don’t accept your speaking to me that way. Would you like me to call security or would you like to leave now?”

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the documents from Institute. They gave him complete authority to use whatever means necessary, but he hadn’t wanted to use them because it meant he’d failed to persuade her on his own. However, he couldn’t afford to waste any more time. With a flick, he tossed them carelessly toward her. They skidded across the shiny surface of her desk.
 

“What’s this?” She stared at the folded papers as if they contained the plague.
 

“Go ahead. Look. I’ll wait.” He pulled a toothpick from his pocket, unwrapped it, and popped the thing in his mouth.
 

“I don’t care what that is,” she said. “Our director of digital systems is in the editing room and wouldn’t be able to meet with you anyway. You’ll have to come back another time or make an appointment. But next time, I suggest you bring your manners.”
 

Editing room? Hadn’t she just told him they didn’t fuck with their images?
 

God, he hated gatekeepers. He shouldn’t have to explain every little thing to some little twit who had no talent other than sitting in a chair and knowing how to use the phone. Each minute spent dancing around like this widened the gap between him and his quarry.